I was attending a worship workshop on-board a warship in Worksop… when…
Peter Pitter, Patrick Pitter’s patronising papa, pounced, then pronounced!
“What do you think of the plight of Peruvian Pachyderms?”
Momentarily nonplussed (and dumbfounded) I hesitantly replied
‘______________’ and stood there gawping like ‘a stock fish’ (Tempest A3S2)
“Thought as much!” he rejoined at my silence.
“Shallow people never run in deep currents!”
He always spoke in questions or exclamatorialisms (if there is such a word – and if there is it applies to him; and if it doesn’t exist, it should, and it would apply to him solely); and so my head took quite a while to catch up once I’d translated his words into plain, understandable, unadulterated, English.
He flounced off – well, actually he just walked away, but I preferred to envision him flouncing, as it gave me some small consolational amount of satisfaction.
I, therefore, spent the next hour checking up on the peculiarities of Peruvian Pachyderms – just to prepare for our next meeting – when, I’m sure, his ire would be directed upon me about a totally disparate subject – I knew the rote by now.
When, later, I was called to speak upon my religious research regarding Revelations and Ruth (my two appointed books from the Bible) I was at a loss to explain how mastodons and mammoths were a part of the Biblical ethos. I received a referral; I was not alone in that. Pitter always had this effect on people’s concentration. He succeeded where others failed; by off-putting their minds with his nefarious negations, which made me (and the others, I’m sure) feel more like a numpty than a Nobel Prize winner.
Later, at supper, we sat in a group around a decaffeinated coffee-table (which was now adorned with les botteile plus vin de siecle) staring conspiratorily into the dregs of our oily red wine of ill, little, or no apparent repute. Common consensus was strongly in favour of putting Peter ‘the patroniser’ Pitter head first into a butt of Malmsey; but, we thought the Shakespearian Allusion to George, The Duke of Clarence’s demise would be lost on Pitter. We had settled on the less subtle, but on-the-whole more realistic scenario of pushing him off the ramparts of the nearest castle at midnight. A surprisingly successful search for an AA map revealed that this area was singularly devoid of crenelated ramparts set upon fairy-tale castles, mystical magicians, or sulphur-breathing dragons and the like. Plan C beckoned. But, after a fruitless head-scratching session tailed to a halt; and as we’d had no ‘illuminating light-bulb’ moments, we all traipsed off to our separate rooms.
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In the morning we sullenly reconvened around the breakfast bar. There seemed to be a… no, there definitely was… an air of resignation in the… air!
“Any inspired dream-sequences? asked Andrea, eventually; hopefully.
No takers on that one.
“Any thoughts on Plan C?”
I’ll admit that Andrea was our de facto unappointed leader. She had the determined desire and ambition to egg us on to unheretofor unknown and, often, unobtainable feats of personal derring-do. That is not to say that she couldn’t be scythed at the knees by a prurient Pitterism – which was, to say, that he was none too secretly enamoured with her, but she wouldn’t touch him with a proverbial.
To be continued